My writing tends to be impersonal—I don’t insert myself, my problems, or my trivia, in the form of biography, into the confines of what appears here. I also don’t post on twitter, or anywhere, pictures of my face, nor do I share the food I’m eating, or the everyday petty feelings, moods, or sufferings that are present despite not being shared. The reverse is also true—my friends that I drink or have heated political discussions with ask to read my writing, and I say ‘No.’ It feels extraordinarily natural for me to segment my life, to compartmentalize and organize it according to a very particular rhythm and arrangement that others tend to be baffled by. I will now break this rule in order to write this article, as I couldn’t write about it in any other way than by going into the reservoir of my personal feelings.
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